The Child's Bedroom
by Violonaire
Summary: Quite a fortune. That's what this old violin was worth. But he had to get it back from the child's room first. Nothing easier than that. At least, that's what Raoul told himself. Re-writing of Ghosts, Chapter I, from a different point of view and a different ending. This story has been specifically written for the Character development WA challenge. Translated by Igenlode Wordsmith


This story has been written specifically for the WA July's Challenge. This story has been beta-read by VStarTraveler and translated by Igenlode Wordsmith from french. Thank you so much for both of you!

* * *

The door creaked softly and a draught stirred the light curtains around the bed; the greenish tinge from the streetlamps, passing through the grimy panes of the window, lent the room a strange, almost eerie atmosphere. The old Louis-Philippe wardrobe cast its deep shadow over the bed, and the tapestry, faded and torn in places, gave the impression of being out of another century. The furniture seemed to have a life of its own, and for a moment Raoul had the feeling that it was about to move to flatten him of its own accord, marshalled under the command of the old lady in the portrait with the cross at her breast who was watching him severely. He took a deep breath and wiped his brow, on which a sweat had broken out.

The drink. It was the drink. He had taken a glass too many, that was all. But after all, there'd been something to celebrate this evening, hadn't there? He laughed, and let out a sigh of satisfaction.

Raoul came into the room as quietly as possible, despite the sensation that everything was dancing around him, and confronted the portrait. The old lady's black eyes pierced him, and the curl of her lip beneath the pendulous withered cheeks would forever condemn him for having derailed the career of her goddaughter, he knew. Good old Madame Valerius. His mouth twisted at the thought of all that this woman had concealed from him, and he spat on the painting, murmuring between his teeth: "Get out of it, you crazy old woman!"

He thought he heard a noise behind him, and cast an uneasy glance towards the bed hidden in the shadows. The sheets were tumbled and he thought he could see a motionless form in the dim light. He breathed again. For once, the boy was sound asleep.

Perhaps tonight they would be left in peace, without those screams of terror that echoed through the whole house. The same as those he made when it was time for his bath: ear-splitting cries that shook Raoul to the depths of his soul - the only sound the boy ever made now. He had never seen a child with such a fear of the water. And to think that he had wanted his son to follow in his footsteps and become a sailor!

Raoul shook his head to chase away the unpleasant memories, and examined his surroundings in search of what he was looking for. The austerity of the bedroom struck him as if he were seeing it for the first time. The grim paintings, the faded lace, the dusty books, the old sheet music arranged too neatly on the stand, the absence of any playthings - it gave him a sense of suffocation. Could this really be the bedroom of a little boy of eight? It was more like a mortuary.

He shuddered and felt in his coat. The contact with the wooden object there beneath the cloth reassured him for a moment. He was going to fix everything, he told himself. It would be all right. He tried to concentrate, despite his blurry vision. Where could the child have hidden that damned violin?

Raoul still couldn't believe how lucky he'd been. At first he'd given short shrift to the man who'd accosted him at the counter in the bar. Then he'd had no choice but to listen when the other had insisted on buying him a drink.

His client, a certain Monsieur Garnier, had been ready to pay a fortune for some antique that Madame Valerius had given to old Daaé. Thousands of francs for a violin that had been hanging round in the bottom of a wardrobe for years before they had let the boy do what he liked with it. A Stradivarius - and how the crazy old woman had been able to get hold of a Stradivarius was more than he could understand - for which his client was ready to offer 240,000 francs. That was what the thing was worth. 240,000 francs in the hands of a child who hadn't spoken two consecutive syllables out loud in three years.

When his hand touched the worn leather of the case in the bottom of the big wardrobe, he felt an immense relief. Casting glances to either side, he quietly removed it from its hiding-place and clutched it to his breast as if his life depended upon it. 240,000 francs. He tried to stand up, with difficulty, and cast a guilty glance towards the still shape in the nest of blankets. Why had this confounded violin been given to a child? Admittedly the child was doing very well in music. A real prodigy, he had to admit. The brat adored the instrument.

Bah! He would soon forget it. They were all like that at his age. That boy needed some sense put into his head, and proper hobbies befitting his station in life. Raoul caressed the case and chuckled softly at his good fortune.

"But.. what are you doing with my father's violin?"

The case slid from between his hands, and the white shape in the doorway, ghostly and diaphanous, drew a gasp of surprise from him. For a moment he thought the old witch had appeared in front of him.

Definitely he had drunk too much. It was only his wife. He sighed. She would have no choice but to forgive him, this time. He knew it. He took a casual step towards her, with a firm resolution not to let himself be distracted.

"Go to bed, Christine, please. The doctor said you needed peace and quiet. Don't worry - the boy's asleep. He won't be waking us up tonight. Go on, please go to bed."

But the bony hand of his wife lay on his arm, and her hollow eyes rested on him in a mournful stare.

"Don't do this, Raoul, I beg you. Don't do it, or... or..."

The threat stung him to the quick, and he looked bitterly at the woman who was standing before him. It was years since he had recognised her. What had become of the lovely laughing fair-haired girl with glowing cheeks for whose sake he had plunged into the sea in order to rescue her scarf? Had she remained behind in the gloomy catacombs of Paris?

Sometimes he had the feeling that he had made a mistake. That he had inadvertently brought back with him one of those ghastly ghouls of legend from the subterranean depths, while his beautiful Christine, whom he would love forever, was still waiting for him patiently at the Rue Scribe gate... The drink mounted to his head and bile rose in his throat.

"Or what, Christine? Or else what? Or else I'll bitterly regret it - is that it? The Phantom of the Opera will come and take our children and carry them off with him underground? Is that so? That's what you used to tell me every time I had to sail for Africa. Did he take Émile's tongue at the same time he took Gustave, do you think?"

He pointed to the Louis-Philippe wardrobe with a trembling hand.

"My God, what happened that night? What the hell was my son doing burning with fever in the bottom of that damnable wardrobe, Christine?"

His wife's face crumpled before his eyes, and he bit his lip. What had come over him to mention Gustave? She had never really got over the death of that stillborn baby - to the point of completely neglecting the only child who remained to them. He was afraid she would break down. But she drew her shawl more tightly about her, laughed softly and shook her head, as if he had told a good joke.

"Your son? Your son lies under the ground, Raoul. Who are you talking about?"

In the corner of his eye he caught sight of the servant eavesdropping. He shot her a black look, and at once she closed the door behind her discreetly. That female from who knew where spied on them constantly and fed gossip to the neighbours - the dirty snoop! He'd had enough of it. Enough of these insane arguments, these ridiculous crises. But all this was going to change; oh yes, everything would change.

All one had to do was to pay no attention to Christine or to what she said in moments like this. It would pass. It always passed. Tomorrow she would have forgotten everything and would act as if nothing had been said - as always.

He shook his head, more dizzy than ever. The room was full of shadows, all of them ready to launch themselves upon him and his precious booty. He felt a cold sweat down his back and closed his eyes, his head spinning. How he hated this room.

He was preparing himself to thrust his own wife out of his way when he heard a door shut in the distance, down the corridor, and silence closed in. Christine had retired to her bedroom. He was alone.

240,000 francs. He thought about all he could do with that money. What could prevent him from leaving this place, once and for all?

The blankets had not stirred. He let out a breath, bending down to retrieve the violin case from where it lay on the room's old carpet, and frowned, puzzled. Sweat standing out on his forehead, he frantically attempted to open the catches and had to try again three times. When he finally managed to get them open, he let out a cry of fury.

The case was empty.

Three strides were enough to show him that the bed was empty likewise.

"Son of a..."

He choked off the final word. No. He couldn't bring himself to speak in such a way of his wife. Fuming with rage and with his fists clenched, he stood for a moment in the centre of the child's room, breathing hard. But where was the wretched boy at such an hour?

The ceiling joists overhead groaned slightly. He raised his head, uneasy, until another, equally discreet, creak was heard.

Raoul smiled. Of course! His fortune was in the attic.

* * *

At the end of the top-floor corridor, the door to his former study was ajar. His heart clenched and the bile rose in his throat again. The child had to be in front of that accursed portrait again. Where else would he have gone? Raoul de Chagny smiled bitterly. He had long since realised the source of the boy's fascination with that immense picture.

He cast a sad glance into the neighbouring room; the room which should have belonged to Gustave. A breeze set the pretty white horses twirling above the empty cradle, as if a child had breathed upon them.

They had wanted that baby so much, Christine and he. To brighten their lives and to wipe out all the unspoken associations of Émile's birth. Their son. Conceived of their love. They had spent days and days preparing this room together and giving it a fairytale appearance. He would have liked to believe that Gustave had become a little angel watching over them, as the servant kept telling Émile. But it had been a long time since he had believed in anything. Even in himself.

He could still remember the the fine fair down on the head of the little corpse, not yet fully-formed, that he had found in the arms of Christine. Christine, who had given birth alone to a still-born child after that damnable performance, while he had been in Africa. He shook his head to drive away the horrible memory. Gustave was dead and Émile had 240,000 francs in his hands. Patting his coat with an air of determination, he set off on tip-toe towards the door that was ajar, halting on the threshold of the little room.

The state the boy was in hit him full in the face. Even in the faint light of the street-lamps, he could make out the yellowish and greying crusts on Émile's neck and on the shoulder left visible by the nightshirt that was too big for him. The child was scratching one ankle mechanically with a dusty foot, so hypnotised by the painting that he had not heard his father come upstairs. His hair, much too long for a boy of his age, came down to his jaw in filthy dark curls, and he was cradling the damned violin like a little girl with her doll.

Raoul recoiled a pace, dumbfounded. Who was looking after the boy? How long had it been since he'd been made to take a bath? For a moment horror swept over him: how had they all come to this? He cleared his throat, and raised the oil lamp in the boy's direction to alert him to his presence.

"Ah, so that's where you're hiding! You weren't in your room and they're looking for you everywhere. But I knew you'd be in here."

The boy turned towards the light with a supple, almost feline movement, like a hunted beast. Eyes wide with fear, he shrank back, clutching the instrument a little more fiercely. He had heard everything.

Raoul bit his lip. The doctors had told him, many times: Émile was not deaf, much less an idiot. The fever which had ravaged him and sealed his lips three years earlier had nothing to do with his mutism and, despite appearances, had not affected his mind. No. If the child did not speak, it was because he did not want to. Something had happened, that night when Gustave was born, and he had walled himself up inside his silence.

At the beginning, Raoul had tried everything to get back the lively boy who had once astonished him with his questions, each one showing a keener understanding for a child of his age than the one before. Then resentment had taken the upper hand. And the boy had become a stranger to him.

Raoul de Chagny would have given anything for a single word from this child.

He crouched down in front of him and attempted a reassuring smile. The reek of alcohol on his own breath overwhelmed him, and he drew back. Embarrassed, he reached out awkwardly to lift the curtain of dark hair that hid the boy's face, and saw only a mask of terror. His throat twisted. Where was the child who used to come rushing into his arms when he returned from Africa?

He fumbled nervously inside his coat, casting a dark look at the painting which gazed down on them. The splendid figure of his brother, Philippe Georges Marie de Chagny was still taunting him from the canvas, surrounded by an army of dashing soldiers whom he had never in his life commanded. Philippe had always had a knack for subterfuge and falsehood.

Philippe had taken everything. Everything. His estates, his rank, his fortune, his childhood... He had all but taken the woman Raoul loved with him to the bottom of the underground lake. And now it was Raoul's eldest son, in front of this painting, whom Philippe was stealing from him, a little more with every day... Of course, Émile knew nothing of all that.

That painting should have been at the bottom of the Seine long since - like the man whom it celebrated. But this evening, Philippe and his fine soldiers were going to pay him back for what they owed him. Raoul finally got his hands on the wooden toy which he had been guarding assiduously beneath his coat, held it up in the light from the lamp, and began a grand recital to the child of their family's imaginary exploits.

The gilt on the little soldier glistened under the lamp, like the boy's eyes, and the navy blue uniform, bordered with red, brought a little colour into his young cheeks. His lips began to part, slowly. He was going to say something. Everything was going to be as it had been before - Raoul could feel it. He swallowed, feeling his eyes fill, and tenderly stroked his son's cheek.

But not a sound came from the mouth of Émile.

Disappointed, Raoul drew back his hand and smiled bitterly. How could he have believed that a mere wooden toy could get the boy to talk? He lowered his head a moment to hide his tears, then raised his head, eyes red and throat constricted, and held out the toy while pointing to the violin. With 240,000 francs, he would finally be able to take Christine and Émile to see the doctor in Vienna whom everybody spoke of in the newspapers. Perhaps the doctor could give him back his family? Maybe a little house on the coast of Brittany, far from the din of this filthy city, would do Christine some good? She was so happy there, so happy...

"This soldier is yours, and I'll buy you a hundred more, if you like. But you must give me this violin, Émile."

It all happened too fast. He tried to grab for the neck of the violin before the child could escape. The boy gave him a look of such despair that he froze with the neck of the instrument in his hand.

What was he about to do - rob a child of his only possession? When had he sunk this low? When? And if he let go - would the boy come to sit on his knee again to listen to the stories of his travels?

He hesitated a moment. But it was too late.

He had underestimated the strength of a child in the throes of panic. It was only when an ominous cracking from the wood of the instrument made itself heard that he understood that he had just lost far more than 240,000 francs.

The boy recoiled, his eyes fixed on the broken violin which Raoul still held. Everything was gone, everything: treatment for Christine in Vienna, that peaceful home by the sea, the chance of another child with the woman he loved... He could not restrain himself. The blow he struck Émile came as a shock.

He saw the child spit out a milk tooth and blood appear at the corner of his mouth. Horrified, he made a movement towards Émile to check on the injury, but stopped short before the mute hatred that boiled in the boy's dark eyes.

Overcome by dizziness, Raoul lowered his gaze. He would have liked to promise the child that he would buy him another instrument, but he knew he could not. He had a sudden vision of himself, with his big brother roaring with laughter at the impotent rage of Raoul there in front of him. He was not Philippe. He shook his head. No - he had not become Philippe!

"I... It doesn't matter... it's just a wretched violin. It's not important. I... I'm here now, all right? I'm here. I'm not going to leave you ever again. Africa is all over and done with. You... you have to talk to me, all right? You can talk, I know. You... you've got to tell me what happened to you. My God, what happened that night, Émile?"

He swallowed. He could feel the warmth of tears running down his cheeks. Burning with shame, he wiped his hands across his face and opened his mouth, the words in his throat like broken glass. "Émile, I..."

But when he looked up, tears in his eyes, there was no-one there save himself, the portrait of his brother, and silence.

* * *

It was not until dawn that he dared to venture into little Gustave's room. The milky light of day shone timidly over Paris through the dusty panes. It was a dawn like all those others he had witnessed across the drunken years... but for all that, this one seemed different. The toys and stuffed animals gathered around the small white cradle seemed to come alive around him, in a setting of misty enchantment befitting the greatest of operas. He listened quietly to the silence of the room around him, and the breathing of the child sleeping there.

Émile. Émile, peacefully asleep at the foot of the cradle of the little brother who was protecting him from nightmares.

Raoul approached carefully and laid a blanket across the boy's frail shoulders, taking care not to wake him. He sat down quietly at Émile's side to watch him sleep. It had been a long time since he had seen Émile asleep like this. He reached into a shabby trouser pocket and brought out a one-franc piece, one of the last he had, examining it for a moment. His gaze lingered on the boy's face: his high cheekbones, so typically Scandinavian, his slightly slanted eyed and his little snub nose. Émile stirred in his sleep and rolled over towards him, thumb in his mouth.

How much the boy already resembled his mother! He gently stroked the long dark curls, which did not come from Christine and still less from his own fair complexion. He had known for a long time that Émile was not, so to speak, his son. He knew.

He smiled softly and slipped the coin under the improvised pillow that the boy had found; perhaps it would bring them both luck. He told himself that he would bring down the toys here into Émile's room. Perhaps the boy would finally feel safe? Raoul promised himself that when Émile was ready to tell what had happened to him, whatever it might be, he would be there to listen or to read it.

After all, Émile was the only son he had left.


End file.
